Gone Dark
by Crux01
Summary: My answer to koalathebear's 'Two and Half Years Later' Challenge. Quinn is a changed man when he sees Carrie again


**Gone Dark**

Quinn knew he shouldn't be here. At best he was wasting precious time that he didn't have and at worst... Well that was somewhere he just did not want to go.

But since he had arrived in Berlin and Saul had told him that she was here, he had felt the irresistible pull as if an invisible thread stretching between them was slowly being shortened. It had shocked him, he had thought he was long over whatever feelings he had once held for her, thought them submerged, lost forever beneath the torrents of violent pain and shit and blood that his experiences had piled on top of them since he left her. So, as with the other complex dichotomies in his life, he rationalised; it was curiosity only, a healthy need to see how someone he had once cared about had prospered, that brought him to this place.

But deep down, behind the impenetrable wall where he hid away all his worrisome morals, he knew differently. Deep down he knew there was nothing wholesome about this need; he was concerned, scared even. He had been sucked into her orbit once before, almost been overwhelmed by the sheer force of her gravitational pull and only managed to survive by positively propelling himself away from her back to his own world. Could it happen again?

So he had come here, to this happy place, a Berlin park on a scorching Sunday afternoon, sweet smelling aromas drifting on the slight breeze, brilliantly bright and full of the reckless giggles and shameless screams of children as they splashed in the shallows of the chic steel swimming pool. They were oblivious; all vibrant energy, cherished and complacent in their ignorance, unaware of the evil forces that skulked so close, plotting to destroy, to bring terror, to wash away the safe stupor of their lives in rivers of ferocious blood.

Quinn drew on his cigarette and told himself it was to safeguard scenes like this all over the world that he did what he did. Through his bloody deeds he had lost all claim of acceptance into this world, would never be able to share the heat of their sun; hearth and home, family and friends would never be his, and yet without his sacrifice, and that of others like him, such simple pleasures would be lost to all forever. He bit back the unwelcome taste of professional pride. He sought no glory, he was no hero; there was no honour in a sniper bullet to the back of the head nor a garrotte wire to the throat followed by an exit so fast that the ensuing pulsating fountain of life blood could not physically hit him, although however quickly he moved he knew such action would always irredeemably stain his soul. His only motivation was that those he killed were bad men, that their extermination was a necessary evil and he hung on to this mantra with a tenacity made frighteningly strong by his desperate need to justify his actions.

Now however, such dark thoughts bringing him discomfort in such a bright festive atmosphere, he lingered, a dark, sinister figure in the cool of the shaded trees. He would see her soon enough in an official capacity of course, when Saul called her to him and they smashed the fragile bubble that surrounded her current world. Quinn had disobeyed orders before for her but now he had wanted to prove to himself that he was strong enough to resist her compulsion, that he would do what he was told and, ignoring the happiness of this woman, he would be the one to turn her dreams of a mundane normal life into the darkest of nightmares. He was the one who would pull her back where she belonged.

He watched the happy scene, a grim outsider unable to fit into the saccharine sweetness of their world, his only bridge to it the magnetic pull of her form. She looked good, he had to admit, she looked very good. She had her back to him, dressed in a white strappy top the gold stitching running through it glinting in the sun and a light pale cotton skirt, she was cool and sexy. Her skin was bronzed and her hair sweeping across her shoulders golden and lush. She was calm, relaxed in a way he had never seen before. He watched mesmerised by the fluid movement of the muscles of her tanned shoulders as she lifted her arm to wave to Franny across the pool. He dropped his cigarette, ground it too viciously into the ever growing pile of butts at his feet, reached instantly to his pocket for another as a hard, envious rush clenched his innards. How could she have done it? How could she have been successful at what he constantly failed to achieve?

He knew the thought was unworthy, petty and mean. He should be pleased for her; she had gotten out. Pleased that she had escaped the clinging chains that held him, pleased they had not been strong enough to keep her down. She had flown, soared away like a golden eagle on the mountain breeze. She had always been the stronger, when she made up her mind to do something, it got done. And look at what she had accomplished; a child, a man, a family. Quinn snorted ruefully, shaking his head. He should be happy for her. That she had managed it, if only for a short time. Glad that she had made the correct choice when he had offered her nothing but...

Shit! He should not have come, should have waited like Saul had ordered. He was fooling himself that he had moved on, that he was over her. Already, with just a whiff of her, he was disobeying orders, having thoughts that he had long since refused to consider. How did she do this to him?

He turned his attention to the man behind her. Quinn, who had turned forty at some point in the recent past, he wasn't sure when it had happened, had only realised in retrospect when he returned from a mission, was surprised to see this guy's age. He was at least ten years older than her, going by the distinguished grey that framed his intelligent face. He was fair, typically of German descent, with that debonair, sophisticated air that only European gentlemen of a certain age can muster. A father figure maybe? He was serenely reading the paper, lifting his eyes occasionally over the frames of his reading glasses, to drink in the sight of the beautiful woman before him. Quinn knew that stare, although he had never been in a position to deliver one like it, he saw it was affectionately warm and tinged with contentment; the stare of a lucky man who knew it and appreciated his blessings endlessly.

It was hot, even under the trees; Quinn felt a drop of sweat pool at his neck, and meander down the indent of his spine. The itch that had begun in his crotch when he first saw her had turned to full blooded throbbing with the visceral churning of never fulfilled lust. It hit him then, with the full force of a hard punch to the stomach. He remembered how she had made him feel, he tasted once more the perfect sweetness of her on his lips. That one time, that one moment when heaven had seemed possible even for him and he had reached for it with the absurd desperation of the drowning man. Could it ever have been his? Had he been wrong to open himself to the possibility? Been deluded to even consider that he could be a normal, decent man?

Fuck! It was happening again. Why did she make him think these things?

He shook his head. He had had many nights of contemplation in the time since; being on a mission gave you that unfortunate luxury. He was not an unintelligent man and, although never open with his feelings to others, he needed some clarity in his own head. At some point during those long lonely nights he had come to an explanation of sorts: He needed absolutes, he needed a world that was black and white. He needed a simple truth, not the complex shades of ambiguity that coloured her world; when he was with her she had shown him so many beautiful and horrifying colours. They had inspired him with their sheer intensity, made him see things he never should, made him doubt... No, it was not for him. Thankfully, and mainly through her rejection of him, he had managed to close his eyes, look away, before the colourful brilliance she brought could fully and irreparably burn and blind his retinas. He had returned to what he knew, let others make the complicated decisions, he simply needed to be told what to do and he would do it. In allowing the last vestiges of his humanity to turn as black as the eclipsing moon, he had regained his control, become reliable once more and earned the respect of his superiors; so many names scrubbed of the kill list by his skill, the strength of his will. It was a price he had been prepared to pay and had never doubted the choice.

And yet standing here, watching her, she had rekindled those undermining thoughts within him as he feared she would. He did remember, remember that she destabilised him on so many levels; the physical pull to her but also the turmoil she created in his head; the vulnerability, the feeling of falling, the lack of direction and clarity. He could not return to that, he needed the control; the power that only his chosen way of life could bring him.

He squinted against the afternoon sun, noted how attractive it was that she laughed with her whole body oozing calm confidence. She was so relaxed as she leaned forward lifting Franny out of the pool, enveloping her in the huge towel. She laughed again, as the man, now standing beside her, warm in the radiance of her presence, said something witty and Franny stuck out her tongue mischievously.

Quinn shivered involuntarily in the chill shadows. She turned, and for a second her eyes moved over where he stood. It was like the sun breaking through the clouds of a dull day. Quinn's mouth went dry and it was all he could do to draw in a shivering breath as a serpent of pure lust slithered in his bowels. He stepped back, retreating further into the dark. And then her glance moved past and he felt free to breathe normally once more, to be the man that he had become.

He had to be prepared, had to steel himself for what was to come. It was clear she could unnerve him, make him lose his assurance and purpose. He must be strong, keep his eye on the prize, play the long game, believe that the end would always justify the means and the needs of the many would always outweigh those of the few...the clichés rolled around his head in a mind numbing litany. He snorted bleakly, aware that even inside his own brain he was beginning to sound like Dar Adal.

Putting his cigarette in his mouth, he looked down at his trembling hands, imagined that they were stained with the blood of the many souls he had taken. Furtively he rubbed them down his jeans, knowing he could never wipe away what only he saw. Whether others could see it or not he knew he was drenched in blood and he could do nothing but continue onwards until he met his fate.

Gulping he looked back to the pool. She was gone, disappeared into the throng with her little family, happy still, for the moment. He leaned back against a tree, drawing desperately deep on his cigarette as if he could find the absolution for his forthcoming sin in its poisonous toxins. He blew the smoke out, marshalled his strength and resignedly began the walk back to where he had left his car.


End file.
